Child's Play

Some mornings here, I wake up not to an alarm clock but to the beautiful sound of children at play. This sound is far from a nuisance, but a motivation, a reminder to me that there is a future that has not yet succumb to nihilism or hopelessness. That there are children who find places for joy, time for play despite the myriad of problems facing their country and the world. It is the screams, the claps, the laughs that remind me of the God who is still in control in the midst of chaos and of the God-given agency people have to overcome structural and societal impediments. If the children who will inherit the messes that have sought to depress me can play, run, and laugh…who am I not to? After all one of my expressed goals in life is to “work as seriously as a child at play.” Since the type of work I plan to do is social justice oriented…I gotta start taking notes.

Child’s Play is hard for me though, when my homeless friend on the street tells me how the cops beat him last night and shows me his scars. Child’s play is hard for me when I see a cop showing his billy club with a sadistic smirk on his face as I am talking to this young homeless boy. Child’s play is hard when I am given a 1,4000 rand stipend every 2 weeks- a sum greater than the monthly income for most families in this country, child’s play is hard when I feel like I have so much to give to this country but because of time and energy constraints I have only done a lot of taking.

Child’s Play is easy though, when at family dinners I find people who are motivated to change and just as deeply affected by the suffering around us. Child’s play is easy though, when one of my Stanford classmates tells me that he wants to develop a CS curriculum in the township he teaches at year around, Child’s play is easy when I go to Beth Uriel 3 times a week and the men articulate stories of hope and praise in their rap lyrics, Child’s play is easy when I think about how improbable my own story is, Child’s play is easy when I think about how improbable the transition from apartheid to democracy was.

Joy. Hope Against all Hope. Child’s Play. It’s the only way to survive a crazy, chaotic, world. The only way to battle injustice. The only way to not lose your mind. The only way to please God-because “without faith It’s impossible to please God” and there is no better way to demonstrate faith than to be a child at play- in the middle of a war.

Children at play are wise, they understand that play time is finite and that work begins..so they might as well have all the fun they can in the time they have. Child’s play.

Random Musings (Robben Island, Victor’s Tales, Racial Profiling, This is Africa? )

Robben Island

This week I saw Robben Island. And that was pretty much it. It was a prison, much like other prisons, bare. As I remarked to my roommate how I wasn’t as moved as I thought I would be, a thought hit me- It wasn’t the place that had inspired me, but the way the people who were held their as political prisoners transformed the place. Don’t get me wrong-walking the place where Robert Subukwe was held in solitary confinement, seeing the lime quarry where education for cognitive liberation and deliberations regarding the future South Africa took place, and seeing the small cell where Mandela was held for many years left a footprint in the sands of mine that will motivate to use the freedom at my disposal to create change.

BUT The place, devoid of the revolutionary heroes that turned it from a prison to a university, was just South Africa’s Alcatraz. When De Klerk freed the political prisoners and let them loose, Robben Island lost all of its value, and all of its mystique. It’s the people, not the place. The memory, not the monument. Visiting Robben Island was great as our guide was once held in prison there, but it was like visiting an empty tomb. Those that were sent to Robben Island to die, have been resurrected and are the architects behind the new democratic South Africa. Inspiration is found on the land, and not on the island.

The People

It’s the people, not the place may very well surmise my feelings toward South Africa. 7 weeks in, the novelty has worn off, the parties are not as fun, Long Street has lost its allure, and the only thing that is keeping me interested is the fascinating people that I have met. For example, one guy at work, a year younger than me told me about life on the streets as a street kid. About how many of them come from severely dysfunctional, abusive, and/or poor homes and make the decision at 9 or 10 years old that life on the streets would be better for them. About how many are addicted to drugs, because they first start smoking to keep warm and to help them go to bed at night and how that nightly habit turns into a day one and turns into using harder drugs. About how rich old tourists and South Africans coerce them with money to have sex with them, and give them drugs so that they are able to serve as sex slaves for hours. About how the lice so consumes your body that you smoke so you don’t itch anymore. About how once you lived on the streets for a year, it’s hard to get used to a bed and the routine in school. About God-given agency and grace because through all that he survived and is motivated to help others to do the same . About how this gringo thought he knew about hardship, but the people have opened his eyes to suffering and evil. About how through telling their story as a story of triumph the “victim” becomes the “Victor” and a testament to the fact that there is always hope. About how hope is illogical if you only see your eyes. About how you must see with your heart because faith is the substance of things not seen. About how hope requires an audacity of optimism, an audacity of belief , an audacity of hope.

Wednesday Dinner

On Wednesday, I organized a dinner with a former Champlain to the ANC and current Dean to St. George’s Cathedral, Pastor Mike Weeder. This was the highlight of the week as it gave me a lot to think about and gave me a flesh and blood example of ministry to oppressed groups and Christianity as the impetus for revolutionary social change. A man of immense wisdom, he told our group that “liberation doesn’t end” that slavery causes a “genocide of identity” that as a colored man who identifies as black that , he was “not anti-white, but pro-black”, that the ANC and Black Consciousness gave him a sense of self to revolt against a society that would have him think that his only future lie in manual labor or in the kitchen, and that righteous indignation is ok, healthy and necessary. During the course of the conversation he told us stories of life in exile, of the difficulties in functioning as a “normal” human being post 1994, and sprinkled his wise insights with quotes from Tupac, Malcolm X, and Bob Marley. (my type of preacher! Lol)

Racial Profiling Does Exist in South Africa

Finally, my roommate and I saw racial profiling in a blatant way at a spot called Joburg this week, which plays only Black American hip hop music. After we were not let in, while 20+ white people were we decided to peep game and watch how the club operated. White guys, especially those with white girls got in easily and free, while black guys were let in only sparingly and had to pay a cover to get in. Sadly, I was neither shock, nor surprised, and honestly wasn’t even angry. As they say, “This is South Africa..” which brings me to another point…

This is Africa?

South Africa is a beautiful country, but far from the Africa I imagined, probably because I’m in Capetown. I think it’s funny that on the motherland, I have been around more white people than I have been at any point, including at Stanford, in the United States. That’s not to say that it’s necessarily a bad thing, but to say that it is an interesting thing. I came hear hoping to feel home and recapture some of the sense of self that the trans-Atlantic slave trade robbed me off. I will come back with an understanding of a complicated history of a place and with the evidence that the world, is indeed flat. Maybe the Africa I long for ,the home I thought I was coming to reclaim, doesn’t exist in the 21^st century . Or maybe I should have know that a Stanford program in Africa, would be a program without many black African professors, without Black African staff (besides domestic servants), without black African lecturers for our sites of memory class…or as I call it “non-Black everything.” Who knows? But that has indeed been my biggest disappointment by far and I am thankful for my job and for one of my professors who give me the Black and coloured South African experience.

Am I abroad? Yes, I’m definitely far from home. But this ain’t Africa, or at least the (South) Africa that I envisioned.

Jo-Burg

Jo-burg, I love. More than Capetown. It's gritty, it's dirty, it's historical, it's a struggle, it's sketch, it's beautiful. Instead of writing a post about all I did and all I saw, I'm just going to share the following 3 poems, (I wrote in ten minutes so bear with me) ...after visiting the capital building, prison, the monument to white supremacy aka the boertrekker momunment..and the apartheid musuem:

Yet Still I Sing (the resilience of the people)
How dare you it's dark
It's painful.
Hopelessness leads time by the hand
and yet I demand
myself to sing.
Under the blows of despair,
Deparvation lays my soul bare,
No Opportunity,
No Air,
And Yet,
Still I sing.


History (Aka Know Better, Do Better in the now)
History is the present
Which side will you be on?
20 years from now,
will your children have to explain your wrongs?
Rationalize your pitfalls,
make ignorance your plea
you Just didn't mean it,
you just couldn't see.
Time will Judge.
The time to act is now
To greed, privlege, and comfort
don't you bow.
History is the present,
you have the pen
Write the wrongs,
May freedom win!


I cry
I cry for the present,
the now
the $ pathway that is injustice's birth canal.

Also, I was able to meet with someone from the Coke scholar board, an African-American woman (angela) who is communications director for Coke South Africa. Dining with her was inspiring, and the private benz towncar was nice!

I've been slacking, and A LOT has happened in the past 2 weeks.

More posts to come.

Stay Tuned.

Show Me A Good Time

Show Me A Good Time

South Africa is many things, but the aspect of its identity that I appreciate the most is that of Ubuntu. Ubuntu basically is the idea that the we comes before the me, that I am only when you are- meaning that I don’t become fully human nor come into being until you are fully human and have come into being. It’s the closest thing I’ve found that echoes Jesus ethos to “Do unto others as you will have them do unto you, and to love your neighbor as yourself.” On the surface it’s puzzling that such a culture even exists in a place rife with legacies of racism, separatism, massive unemployment, violence, decay, death, and corruption. I don’t mean to suggest that every person in South Africa follows the Ubuntu principle, but those that do are a beautiful portrait of love in action.

This past Saturday, a group of us went to a braii or a South African BBQ, of an Indian girl who was friends of a friend of someone in the program. We were going to take a train, but her father found out about that and picked all ten of us up in his car. It was a humorous sight to see ten gringos in the trunk of this man’s car, who came 20 minutes to pick us up despite not knowing anything about us besides the fact that we were “American.” Throughout the whole ride, he extolled us to use him as a resource, to call him if we need a ride, to talk to him if we are homesick, to stop by his restraunt if he is hungry as “South Africa belongs to everyone, it is the cradle of civilization. Africa is everyone’s mother.” The ride and the close confines was the perfect picture of South Africa- less than ideal, crowded, but a closeness and warmth that I have not found in too many places in America.

The BBQ was a wonderful show of community, of love, of Ubuntu as we were welcomes with welcomed arms and met many locals who promised to show us a good time in our time here. 2 20 somethings in particular I hit it off well with, although they spoke like a 1980’s Hood Movie. Exclamations and jokes were capped off with a “Playa!” and they were horrified to discover that I did not know anything of house music. The conversation with them was fascinating however, as once again I was reminded of the impact of media on shaping people’s ideas about the identities of others. They seemed to be fascinated by my “blackness” and my “swag” and even remarked that getting girls in Capetown would be no problem as I was a black American, and every black man has game. (LOL..if the shoe fits) All in all, the Braii was beautiful because it had South Africans of every hue celebrating the accomplishments of one girl and they welcomed us vistors not as strangers but as family. It was beautiful.

Saturday night, I received a text message from a coloured man we met on the beach in our first week in Capetown who promised to take us to hip hop spots during our stay here. He was at a lounge called Havana and invited us to come. Of course, my roommate Darren, myself, and our homie Jonah went. The place was beautiful, but even more beautiful than the women there or the festive mood was the way Marvin and his circle of friends embraced us and took us in. They introduced us to people, rapped to American songs with us and just seemed genuinely happy that they were able to share their city with us. Marvin even took us home at 3:30 am and promised to pick us up in 7 hours to take us to Mizoli’s.

Mizoli’s

Mizoli’s has been by far my favorite experience in Capetown. It is a massive meat making enterprise, club, church service, and family reunion and the South African township of Gugulethu. Despite the fact that it is in a township noted by some for it’s violence, Mizoli’s is wildly popular attracting tourists, and South African locals for it’s delicious cheap meat.

At Mizoli’s I encountered community and made a family. The people at the table with us refused to allow us to remain outsiders, but were so giving of their time, their personality, their food and of theirselves with us. They demanded that we eat their food, attend their 2 year olds pool party next week, go on a guy’s night out roadtrip with them next weekend, and feel at home in their home. They joked about me being Mike Lowrey from Bad Boys, Mase, and Jay-Z and were just as excited as me and my friends when Fat Joe or Empire State of Mind came on. We took pictrues, we murdered the week, we were a community, ubuntu. More impressively, we met 3 black Stanford law students who came to our table , and the table embraced them just as much as they embraced us. It was almost chills enducing how the walls usually put up against strangers were non-existant. It was happiness, it was joy and for that reason I called it church- as it was love in action, it was community, it was the breaking of bread, the doing of dances. It was what the Sabbath should be- a festive time of rest and reflection, enjoying life and unwinding before the start of another arduous week.

Towards the end of Mizoli’s the coloured band, or “minstrels/coons” as they are called in South Africa ( not a derogatory term here though, the ethomology of the word and how it got here deserves a wall post in its own right) came through, and being the extra person that I am , of course I had to march with them. I was doing my best house music moves, playing the drums, and going dumb. At that moment, I truly felt abroad and blessed to be able to experience this.

Let me also interject here and say that my experience on South Africa is largely predicated on the fact that although I am a black man, I am a black man from America and Stanford University who is able to enjoy the privledge that that entails. Hip Hop music has given black Americans both a good and bad rap abroad, but above all has made me an object of interest, has made me cool, and has made me able to transcend many of the racial stereotypes that poor marginalized black Africans can’t. Coloured people love Black Americans and Black American culture, although they usually don’t fratenzie with Black South Africans. White South Africans love to seem (or in some cases be) progressive by speaking with and helping Black Americans. So the concept of Ubuntu here is not simple but complex, in some cases it includes everyone, but in other cases it includes only those of the same race and then exotic Americans. It’s difficult to say, but I must be honest, I am confident that I would have had such an amazing experience with people of every hue in this country if I had not been a Black-American. Actually in South Africa the order is different I am an American-Black. American 1^st, a black man second.

Still, I am hopelessly in love with this country and it’s people. (Count how many times I say BEAUTIFUL in these posts) The fact that such joy and community exists in a township is not surprising to me, but seems to defy the mainstream image disseminated about what the township has to offer. The people that I’ve met in this country regard me as a brother and make it a personal mission of theirs to make sure that they show me a good time. Day after day, experience after experience, night after night, I feel like Drake and ask. “How did I end up right here with you?”

You Must Rap for Me!

50 Cent, Michael Jackson, and Chris Brown

I finally started my internship,, so this quarter looks as if it will be as busy as any other. I am working at an amazing organization called Beth Uriel, or “House of Light” that serves as a home for 16-24 year old men who want to avail themselves to opportunities normally not present in the townships in which they live. The organization is run by a white American woman, Lindsay, who by her own admission does not do paperwork, but in my one meeting with her I know that there is so much for me to learn from her. The 26 men in the house have taken to calling me “California” and “Brother” and in my 3 short days there I have learned the true meaning of family. Faithfully, when its dark out, they walk me home saying “We can’t let our brother go anywhere alone.”

I haven’t been doing much work at the home yet, just trying to get acquainted with the place. In talking with the men in the house, I have learned the true meaning of hood life and struggle. I tried to explain to them that I know hood, but they corrected me and told me of places where the opportunity structure is not only not fair, but practically non-existent. What I love most about my internship thus far though, is that they are bent on teaching me something to take back home. “Brother, you can’t just come here and teach us. We will teach you.” These young men are hungry for success, and as one of the few African-American males that they have ever meant in real life, I Consider it a blessing to try and help them get there. Plus, they go to church on Sunday, and I definitely need church.

Additionally, all of Stanford in Capetown went to Linawo’s Children’s home and painted fences. I was blessed with the task of watching the kids, and some people were surprised at my ease with children and at getting them to do work. In fact, The program director asked did I have a lot of siblings. IN the afternoon, the school aged children came home and all the little boys were so eager to fight, wrestle, and talk with me. One of the most epic scenes was when it was me and 10 of them around a table and they were talking about me in Xhosa and told me I looked like 50 cent. Snapping back after what I perceived to be an insult, one of the boys turned to me and said “You must rap!” Almost on cue, another boy put a hat on my head backwards and gave me some shades. Not wanting to embarrass myself, I got another kid from the program who can actually rap to rap for them and I orchestrated the group in making a hip hop beat. We were a legit group, bangin on the table in unision with me being loud and extra talking bout “Hey! Ohhhhhh!” After my friend rapped however, they still weren’t satisfied. “You must rap!” So I hit em with that Fresh Prince. Needless to say, they had no idea what hit them!

After, I was given a traditional Xhosa name meaning blessing and had the honor of being jumped by 10 boys aged 8-12 years old. A lot of fun. The best part though is when I ceased to be 50 cent and turned to Chris Brown, Usher, and Michael Jackson.

In the past weeks, there have also been times that weren’t so happy and times were I was acutely aware that I was in fact a black man. The whole house went to a soccer game and one of the guards wouldn’t let me take my seat because I had thrown away my ticket stub. When my black roommate came to talk to her, she didn’t believe him. It took me yelling and 2 of my white American classmates to convince her that I was not stealing a seat ( which was only about 12 bucks anyways!). Or I was in a seafood restraunt and waited 15 minutes for some fries, only to have the fries that were cooked to be given to an older white businessman who came in ten minutes after me.

Despite these incidents though, I love Capetown. I love South Africa. And I love being abroad.

A couple of Pictures

That Chicken was Good!

Capetown has a lot of homeless people and street children. They are usually posted at night outside all the nightclubs on Long Street, a constant reminder of the very real conditions people live in the midst of this great tourist experience. One in particular, a thirteen-year-old boy I call “little bro”, I’ve established a relationship with. Every time I go out and he sees me, he walks by and if I give him the look , he already knows not to ask for anything. On Wednesday though, he gave me a fist bump and asked for money despite the look. I told him, “I don’t have any money bro,” and he said, “Please man, I’m hungry.” The fact that he didn’t ask for money for drugs this time but for food struck me so I sent him to Nandos and with the help of one of my friends , I was able to buy him some chicken. 30 minutes later after leaving a club, he came up to me and said, “Brother, that chicken was GOOD!” and for the first time appeared to be a 13 year old kid, and not a hardened, wise beyond his years little man. He seemed happy and content in that moment. So much so that he did not ask a single patron for any change. His statement is one that I feel encapsulates my entire abroad experience, “Brother, that chicken was good!”

“Brother, that chicken was good!” is the spirit of Capetown, the appreciation of little sign of progress. Despite the fact that he was born addicted to a substance, became an orphan, and is seemingly condemned to a life on the streets did not stop him from appreciating the fact that he had dinner for one night from Nandos and that the chicken was GOOD! Despite the fact that the nation is still seeking to rebuild itself after apartheid and is still segregated in many respects, “the chicken was good!” Despite the fact that conventional wisdom would tell me not to feed the hungry or engage in conversations nor develop relationships with the beggars “the Chicken was Good!” It’s the little things, the things we take for credit, that in the end make all the difference.

That Chicken was good: The day after our visit to the townships my roommate and I decided to go check out the beach, despite the fact that we could not swim. The beach was incredibly beautiful, white sand, blue water happy families. Falling asleep in the cool shade to the sounds of waves was refreshing. With the mountains to my back and the endless seas in front of me, I was more aware than ever of the limitless possibilities God has placed in front of me.

That Chicken was good: The entire program went wine tasting (for free!) and had a fancy dinner on some vineyard in South Africa. The conversations around the table were great ranging from topics such as privilege to my love for the music of J. Cole.

That Chicken was good: Night after night, classmates (Gringos as I call em lol) come to my room and we have the deepest and longest conversations deconstructing race and just having “real talk.” It’s incredibly powerful to see so many different people in my room at night discussing issues that many of us would never touch in America, in a frank and often politically incorrect manner. Conversations like these allow me to believe that it is ignorance and not active malice that causes both internal and institutionalized racism in the states today.

That Chicken was good: On Tuesday Night, I went to a drum group and although the instructor was dismayed by my lack of musical acumen and forbade me to play or sing, I still felt the spirit of ubuntu staring at the gringos from Stanford drumming and jamming away. Music, Community, that’s a big part of Capetown, a big part of Africa, a big part of what it means to be human.

That chicken was good!

Mountain High, Valley Low

I’ve been to the mountaintop! Yeah, I actually took the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain to watch the sunset, beautiful, breathtaking. Peaceful and Serene. Seriously, if you don’t believe in God, come to South Africa as some parts are so beautiful that it would be illogical to assert that they just happened with no design. At the top of the mountain, I could see the whole city, lit up by night but it’s beauty was deceptive as the lush green and the cool breeze would have you believe that everything was all right in the country. Although, truth be told, in that moment it did seem as if everything was.

I’ve been to the Valley! The day after being on the top of Table Mountain, the house was able to go on a township tour and the way I felt about it, mirrors the way I feel about the country thus far- it’s a love hate. On one hand, I enjoyed seeing the townships even if we did just drive through most of them, but on the other hand I hated feeling like a tourist who gawked at how people in the townships live. The townships were a stark reminder of the work that needs to be done- black people still live in tin roof shakes in the same city where there are billion dollar soccer stadiums and beachfront houses. Black people still live in crowded conditions despite the ascent of the ANC. But the people are what save the townships. They are strong, they are proud, but most of all they are human, they are people. They are not to be pitied but to be partnered with. We met some of the most amazing people doing amazing things despite the legacy of apartheid and the bleak outlook of the present- people like an HIV positive woman with a thriving sewing business who was teaching the others in her township to sew, and Mama Vicki a woman with strong business acumen who has a thriving bread and breakfast that gives foreigners the ultimate “township experience”. I love the fact that she is on her hustle, although it pains me that some people are able to choose to have a township experience and leave after a day to say that they did it, while others are forced to live in them and have seemingly no way out. Still as Mama Vicki said, “there is life in the townships!” There is agency. People aren’t just waiting for the government to fix it…they are trying to make it happen despite having no electricity and having to share a toilet with 11+ families each.

I was struggling with the concept of God being good to me last night, as does that require He be bad to others? (Like those in the townships!) But I’ve found my answer…it is nothing but the goodness of God, in my opinion, that even allows people to survive such miserable conditions in their right mind, with a sense of joy, with the creation of the community and the ever present hope that tomorrow will be better.

For those not in the know, townships are basically South Africa’s ghettos and are home to unemployment rates as high as 80% and HIV rates of 50%+. This number may be jarring, but as me and my roommate have been incessant in pointing out..there are places in the very United States with the same rates affecting the same marginalized black populations dealing with the same legacy of apartheid. It’s crazy to think that you can assume where someone lives here, just based on their race. There were Colured townships, Black Townships, and Indian and White Suburbs….different, interesting for sure. But It is a sad commentary on the race relations of the United States in that I can assume the same thing to an extent about where people live based on their race and that this township tour 10,000 miles away may have been some of my classmates first experiences in seeing where marginalized black people live- where there are so many places close to our school and to their neighborhoods that offer the same experiences.

South Africa is a paradox, a practice in extremes. In only a week here, I have been thinking and questioning and learning. 9 more weeks of this might cause brain damage. Yes, I’ve been to the mountain top and I’ve looked over and I’ve seen the Promise Land. But I’ve also been to the valley and I realize it will take hard work, structural changes, divine intervention and many years to ensure that we ALL get to the Promise Land Together.

Honey, I'm Home! (Day 1 and 2)

The first thing I saw on my way to the Stanford house in Capetown, were the townships on the outskirts of the city. They seemed to be strategically placed out of sight and out mind…which brought to my remembrance the analysis Tupac gave of urban American in his Christmas interview when he spoke about blacks living in an “outer city” far from the American psyche. Likewise, the townships appeared to me to be something most considered best forgotten. It was an instant and stark reminder of the vestiages of apartheid and the legacy of inequality.

Upon arrival on the Stanford house, I noticed that all the program coordinators/directors were white and that the cleaning staff was black. I had hoped Stanford being the place “where the wind of freedom blows” would be more progressive in the composition of their staff, but I guess idealism and diversity are only important in the states and amongst the undergraduate population. (sarcasm) Later I found that 2 of the 7 professors were African black, but I still can't help but think about the message that I had internalized about the value that my institution seemed to place on African blacks.

Always the explorer, I decided to venture out my own and get a feel for my surroundings. I immediately found the internet café and was surprised at the Whitney Houston and Anthony Hamilton blasting from the overhead. After appeasing my net addicition, I wandered into a used bookstore looking for Steven Biko, although they had none of his writings. Luckily, I picked up “A legacy of liberation” by Mark Gevissner in the house, and spent the next day reading all 350 pages. The book was a good read and brought up to date in terms of Capetown politics and the achievements and shortcomings of the African National Congress since the end of apartheid.

Thabo Mbeki was the protagonist of the book and his journey was very inspiring. He was literally born into the movement to liberate South Africa and put that above everything, including tranditional family relationships. I most empathasized with him as he left his home and his community to pursue education in London and learned to be at ease with privlege and to leverage that network to help liberate his people. By all accounts, Mbeki was a brilliant man and proved pivotal in the negociations between the ANC and the Nationalist party and in appeasing successionist groups like the Zulus and some Afriikaners during South Africa’s transition to democracy . The biggest takeaway from his story for me was the danger of being an ideologue. When he became South Africa’s 2^nd post apartheid President, he made everything binary and saw criticism, policts, and global politics through a racial lens, meaning that every criticism was racist at heart and an attempt to discredit African self-determiation. Although this may have been true, that ,in my opinion should have not have caused him to dismiss criticisms and critiques wholeheartedly.

After reading the book, what I am most excited about learning is the transition of the ANC from a liberation army to a governing structure. How can you govern a state where the majority of the population was underdeveloped and not invested in for a century?!

While exploring the area of our house a little while on my on, I had a good conversation with an Indian man who had been out of work for three weeks. When I told him I was America, he asked me was America a place where everyone has jobs. You shouold’ve seen his face when I told them that in some segments of the African-American population at home unemployment hovered around 30-40% (those without or just with high school degrees) and that although not as abject, there are places in the United States that are similar in terms of developments to the townships. We then talked about causes of criminality and he remarked that the government shouldn’t be surprised that crime was up when so many people couldn’t eat. I smiled and told him that we had similar problems in America.

Towards the end of my 2^nd night, I went out with the Stanford crew to experience the nightlife close to our home. It was fun and cool as it was a pool hall, but I thought it was interesting that the place was at least 85% white. An older man showed me how to play pool, we departed to McDonald’s afterwards and walked through the drive through and I got ready for bed.

Thus far, South Africa has been a paradox to me. I have not yet had the opportunity to engage with Africans and in my program and in my social scene thus far I have spent the majority of my time with white South Africans and Americans. This has given me in these short 2 days a different experience than the one I expected, but one that has taught me a lot. From my interactions, I have not noticed any racial tension (because social life seems to be extremely segregated) and the White South Africans I’ve met out have been extremely talkative and kind to me.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned from reading and from watching and from talking is that nothing is simple and everything is complicated. I’ve also learned that nothing, especially people, are static, and everything Is subject to change.

On a final note, I remarked to my roommate today that this would be like studying in Alabama or Mississippi in mid 1980’s America. (in the heart of the Reagan Revolution, crack epidemic, and the war on drugs!) I am suspicious that as a student studying abroad then, I would’ve been insulated from many of the hard realties of the adjustment to democracy after an apartheid state. I am then fearful, that unless I’m intentional, that I will have a similar experience in South Africa, 20+ years after the end of apartheid.